


A Poor Man's Therapy

by I_Swear_Its_Just_Me



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: And was somehow easier to work on than my other WIPs, Angst, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Jeremiah Valeska needs a hug, Joker is drunk, Just a little mention of blood, M/M, Mild Gore, Pain, Spoiler alert: neither of them are happy, Therapy, This sorta came to me out of the blue, metaphorical speeches, not really - Freeform, short and bittersweet, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23420059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Swear_Its_Just_Me/pseuds/I_Swear_Its_Just_Me
Summary: Batman and Joker talk.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 65





	A Poor Man's Therapy

"What are you doing?" A deep voice demands into the echoing silence.

A drunken laugh rings out in reply, sound distorted by an acid-torn throat. "Batsy! How nice of you to-" A hiccup breaks his statement. "How nice of you to join me!"

The Batman doesn't respond, instead choosing to glare down at the Joker's face, a scowl upon his face. The Joker giggles. "All right, all right… You never are one for humor, are ya?"

There is no response, and the Joker takes a sip from his bottle of cheap booze. He stares below him at the vat of acid he'd fallen into a decade ago. Thankfully, an extensive amount of plastic surgery had gotten his damaged skin back to normal, no longer so gruesomely burnt. He'd done a bit of work, but his hair was finally growing again. It was short--too short--as he ran a gloved hand through it. "I'm here for poor man's therapy, Bats. I'm gonna stew in my family issues and throw my bottles, " he punctuates the statement by swirling the liquid in the half-empty bottle around. "Into this vat of acid. Watch 'em disintegrate like my face."

"Talkin' to ya is like talkin' to a brick wall, ya know that Batsy?" He drinks down the rest of his bottle and drops it below him, watching it be engulfed by the acid.

"I always wondered, who the hell just leaves a fuck ton of vats of acid just uncovered like this? In this shithole of a city, especially? Contrary to popular belief, I did  _ not  _ make this acid. That means whatever Ace Chemicals was brewing up has been sitting here since before my brilliant little bombs exploded. And even after the city got put back together, they didn't do shit about it. Didn't do shit about flesh-melting acid in the middle of fuckin' Gotham City. Ever think about that, Bats?"

Batman hums thoughtfully. In truth, he hadn't. He sat down on the grate about three feet to the left of the Joker. He was incredibly drunk, swaying gently even as he sat. Though not posing an immediate threat to the city, he was still dangerous and volatile. It was hard to imagine that this was the brilliant engineer he'd been...friends with long ago.

The Joker didn't react to the Batman sitting next to him except to reach to his right and grab a new bottle, holding it out to him. Bruce held up a hand to decline the offer.

"Figures you don't drink on the job. Lame." Joker laughed a little, dropping his outstretched arm to the grate clumsily. He looked around himself, facial expression pinched into one of confusion.

"Where'd I put the fuckin'... The fuckin' thing… Bottle opener? Damn It..." The Joker muttered this under his breath to himself, patting his pockets. After a moment, he shrugged and used the railing to shatter the neck. Some liquid spilled out, and he muttered a string of curses under his breath, taking out a pocket square and wiping the drippage off of his hand. After letting out a self-satisfied hum, he put the broken bottle to his lips and took a long swig.

Batman cringed, trying to put the thought of glass cutting at his lips out of his mind. 

The Joker stared pensively out at the acid, his lips pulling into a frown. His sickly pale face looked green from the light of the acid, lipstick smudged. Even the edges, where it turned up to give the impression that he was always smiling widely, were wiped away. His suit was wrinkled and ill-fitting, and there was a gauntness to his face that seemed to be highlighted by the minimal lighting. A haunted look seemed to emanate from his being, centered at his eyes, as pale green as the acid.

"I think I died here." The Joker says this quietly. He sounds sane for the first time in a long time.

"What do you mean?" The Batman bites. He's curious. Morbidly so.

The Joker takes another swig, setting the bottle down at his side afterward. The Batman can see that there is a little blood around the broken rim. 

"Officially, at least. This is my grave. Where there was no return. Where I think I broke, entirely." His questions aren't answered, and the Batman is an impatient man. But he won't interrupt.

"Jerome's gas was kinda like… Flatlining in a hospital. Still a chance for survival, a chance to be brought back. You get your heart restarted, and you're good. Someone can still reach you, bring you back." His suddenly somber eyes find Batman's, staring pointed at him, almost. His eerily green eyes are glassy, reminiscing. 

Batman feels it, too. Guilt. He reminisces on their good times. He remembers one too many drinks from a glass decanter and a night filled with kisses and waking up tangled in sheets together. And coffee and board games, days spent in the Wayne Manor library, and others spent working in the bunker on the generators. He remembers sweet words and sweeter embraces, though he can't recall the words or the feeling of his arms wrapped around him. Not anymore. Their past is bittersweet, beginning with lonely boys finding comfort in each other and ending with lonelier men constantly at each other's throats.

The Joker's piercing gaze returns to the acid. "And this… This is the grave. No return. Gone. Buried."

He shakes a little, as if holding back a violent shiver. "I wonder if he ever cried here, at my grave. Maybe yelled at the sky, at the cruelty. Mourned his loss. Mourned a long life cut short by malevolence."

He laughs humorlessly, raising the bottle back to his lips shakily. He takes a long drink and tosses the bottle into the vat, though Batman's pretty sure it wasn't empty yet. "Who'm I kiddin'? Brucie was probably happy when I fell. No more bombs or burdens anymore, right? He's probably forgotten about me by now."

Bruce, behind his mask, stays quiet.

"Least I got you, right, Bats? Even though we're always tryin' to kill each other, at least you're constant, right? Can serve as much shit as you take. I keep you on your toes, you keep me on mine. Nemeses and all that."

"I guess."

The Joker smiles at him weakly. "I guess, " he parrots. A tear, blackened by his make-up, slides down his pale cheek. He sits up straighter, ducking his head and wiping at it. "Sorry, sorry, acid fumes in my eyes and all that." Batman doubts it, but he won't comment.

"Well, this has been nice. I'm all outta booze, though. And I doubt you're just gonna let me walk free, right? So, back to Arkham I go." He holds out his hands close together, like he's expecting cuffs. Batman blinks, before taking out a pair from his belt and tightening them on thin wrists. They stand, and the Joker takes a step, swaying dangerously. He takes another step and nearly falls through the gap in the railing, horribly ironically.

Batman sighs resignedly and picks the Joker up, bridal style. He smiles tiredly up at him with half-closed eyes. "Thanks, Batsy."

They're barely out of the building when he falls asleep in Batman's arms, warm.

He wakes up in crisp white sheets, fluorescent lights of an Arkham cell boring into his bones. He shivers and pulls the sheet closer to himself, missing a warmth he can't remember anymore.

Bruce Wayne, the Batman, wakes in silk sheets, his pillow tear-stained. 

Because he remembers mourning at Jeremiah's grave. He remembers screaming skyward about the cruelty of taking his lover, his friend, from him. Begging for a second chance, contemplating falling through the gap in the railing, joining his lover in his early grave. 

Because when Jeremiah had fallen, he hadn't looked like the monster who'd caused him so much harm. He'd looked like the scared engineer he'd sat next to, bombs around their necks and at the mercy of Jerome. He had looked like the person he'd loved so strongly, sane and scared and whole. 

And he'd reached out, hoping to catch him.

He'd watched as his body hit the acid.

As his friend, his lover, like water, slipped through his fingers.

And he'd run, desperately trying to fish him out of the acid.

And paramedics had had to pry him off of the body, screaming and crying and kicking.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He remembered it all.


End file.
